The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over

  the paper

Like draggled fly's legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncertain window and the

  bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing

  in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,

  virgin of loveliness

Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart

  against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.